


505

by apollos



Series: Use Your Body [3]
Category: South Park
Genre: Experimental Style, First Time, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Linear Narrative, Piano, Porn Video, Separations, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollos/pseuds/apollos
Summary: (You're waiting lying on your side with your hands between your thighs and a smile.)Craig, Tweek, separation and erotica.





	505

**Author's Note:**

> getting back into the hang of writing with a cope fic as you do

Three important things that defined Craig's life occurred in a two-day span: his grandmother died; his father was offered a job in small-town Minnesota; Craig lost his virginity to Tweek Tweak. None of these were related, or they all were, Craig wasn't quite sure, didn't like to think about it. His grandmother had hidden money away, her inheritance elevating Craig from being the second poorest kid in South Park to the second richest. In Minnesota, he  _was_ the richest. His mother learned to play the stocks.

Craig had no financial bone in his body, and since Stan and his friends fucked him out of that hundred dollars, he'd been prone to grandiose overspending. Upon turning eighteen, which happened three months ago, Craig spent the part of his grandmother's inheritance that had been unlocked to him on two things: a state-of-the-art camera for filming and a one-way plane ticket, first class, to Denver.

 

 

_They are fifteen and a half and it is snowing outside. It is always snowing outside. Craig holds Tweek, trembling and red and overheated, in his skinny growth-spurt arms, kisses the matted, fragrant, straw-like strands on the top of his head. "I love you," Craig murmurs, lips just brushing against Tweek's scalp. He thinks about what Tweek's scalp looks like underneath all that hair, can only see what he remembers of his sister as a newborn, the shininess, the pinkness, the sweet, sweet milk smell._

 

 

_Tweek pulls his sweater over his head, the quick movement of it freezing the webcam for a second. Craig takes the opportunity to press the pads of his fingers against the swath of exposed skin above the waistline of Tweek's boxers. They're patterned boxers, smiling little bunny heads on them, and Craig fingers the tiny wisp of a happy trail, carrot-shaped. He can't see it with the resolution on the webcam, but he knows it's there, knows what it feels like. Tweek's sweater is a deep olive green. It brings out his eyes._

 

 

_Minnesota is a blip on the radar. A non-state. One of the ones that you forget exist, like Delaware, like Iowa, when there's no reason to think of them, where they occupy a cliched-television space inside your brain. Minnesota, Craig says, rolling the word around on his tongue. Minnesota. It has none of the same romantic connotations, allusions, as Colorado, as the West. Craig wants to fancy himself an outlaw. But he gets in the family car, and he rides in the cramped backseat with Tricia while she complains and files her nails, never at the same time, all the way to Minnesota._

 

 

_Despite his small size, Tweek has big hands. Piano player's hands elongated by years of practice. They're sitting on the piano bench in Tweek's home, naked, Ghost-style, cramped, Craig's arms around Tweek's waist, Craig's head on Tweek's shoulder. "Play me something," Craig breathes. "Play me Beethoven." His hands dip down between Tweek's thighs, take ahold. Tweek stumbles and stutters through the Moonlight Sonata until it smooths out, in time with Craig's stroking._

 

 

_Craig lowers Tweek to the bed and presses his lips into the hollow of Tweek's collarbones. Quarters can fit in Tweek's collarbone; you can stack them, they can contain an entire dollar each. Now they collect Craig's tears. "It's all going to be alright," Craig says. "I'll come back in the summer, I'll stay with you, I'll drive, I'll get a car, I'll cross all the borders. Can I?" A double permission, he reaches down, down, down, prepares for a union that feels as much as a blood oath._  
  


 

_"School here sucks," Craig says into the webcam, sweaty hair falling into his eyes, too blissed to move, not sure what he's talking about. He can see the curve of Tweek's naked ass, Tweek laying on his stomach with his head pointed to the camera. Craig's on his back, a hand on himself. "God, it fucking sucks. They're all, like—cud-chewers. Cows. Blank stares. Idiots. I miss you. I miss you. You're the smartest person I've ever met. You're the best. You're so interesting. Tell me about that piece you're composing, and send me a clip, I want to hear it."_

 

 

_It snows in Minnesota, but it's not the same. Still, every time, Craig feels both aroused and devastated. On one bad day, home alone, he strips naked and wanders outside, throws himself into a snowdrift. The torture of teenage love—the torture of knowing your soul mate before either of you can settle, truly settle, and the torture of all the changes, of all the pieces that move together but don't quite yet mesh, that need to be hammered out, and oh-! To be apart during the hammering, to not be able to be a part of the hammering—_

 

 

_Hips against hips, sliding like heavy metal machinery, creaking, groaning, coming, together, apart, fluid, sticky, aftermath, shrinking, cowering, becoming one, melding, a blood oath, an agreement to silence, a silent agreement, together, together, together, they are fifteen and it is snowing and tomorrow Craig departs in a car to a nonstate._

 

 

Craig draped the set in heavy black curtains, frames the lighting like a Caravaggio painting, deep and lush. Tweek gained weight; a little, succulent roll forming as he sat at the piano bench, his terrible posture the only thing keeping him from greatness, from stardom, from Julliard. Just as well. Craig wanted him all to himself. Wanted to bite the roll and consume and make communion, and never to part. Craig worked at the camera, making sure everything was right, the frame was perfect, that he had pressed record.

"Okay," he said, breathlessly. "Start."

Tweek turned, positioning his body as elegantly as Aphrodite relaxing after an affair with Ares. He gave the camera a long, lingering look; Craig's heart sped up, as it sometimes did when he realized, rerealized, the beauty of Tweek, the thunderous, all-consuming beauty.

Then Tweek turned, straightened his back—Craig knew it would then fall, and that he would spend a half an hour tonight in bed massaging out all the kinks and the bumps and the pain, soothing Tweek into sleep, one of the only ways he  _could_ sleep—and pressed his fingers to the keys. "This song is dedicated to Craig," he said, confidently, and began to play.

Of course, he did not play the whole thing—no, that was only the beginning, the thing with which to start the diegetic music that would play over the whole movie. Now Craig stepped into frame, stripping himself of his robe as he went. He walked to Tweek; Tweek turned to meet him; Craig cupped Tweek's chin, connecting their eyes, holding him loosely but completely.

Tweek rose to meet Craig, pressed his lips to Craig's mouth, and thus they started anew.


End file.
